


A Game for Two

by bonerthatiusedtoknow



Series: Character studies, drabbles, and a bit o' this'n that [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Outsider, Season 1, Wincest if you squint, pov challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonerthatiusedtoknow/pseuds/bonerthatiusedtoknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bartender watches a man with green eyes and a mouth meant for sin. (Takes place somewhere around the pilot).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game for Two

He’s hard to miss, even in the smoky, crowded room where faces all start to blur together after a certain time and a number of drinks. She hasn’t had anything, not her style to drink on the job, but she’s been at this so long she barely registers the details anymore. He sticks out though, and it’s not the wide green eyes so bright they burn to look at for too long, the prominent, fuck-me-now cheekbones, or pouting plush of his mouth that’s tiptoeing the line of feminine and curving into a slow, appreciative smirk when he finds her looking—it makes heat rise high in her face even though she’s old enough to be his mother. It’s not the stubbled jaw line that could cut brick and the slight cleft chin it melts into, or the smooth bronzed skin that’s just begging to be touched and tasted, or the broad shoulders and the obvious strength lying dormant beneath his clothes. All those things are factors of course—she has eyes, after all—but it’s something else.

It has to do with the way he holds himself when he walks—self-assured and easy like he owns the room and everything in it, but still cautious somehow and ready to spring at the slightest sign of trouble: a practiced ease. It’s not something someone would notice upon first glance, or at all, if they didn’t make a living reading body language, he’s too good at this—at knowing people, how they think, what they see—maybe even better than she is. There is no subtlety about him, a smoothness to his movements that’s graceful, despite that cocky, rough exterior, and demands attention. People see him, they watch and lust and hate and envy. They see but they don’t _see_ , not like she does. Because he’s looking right back, uses his pretty face, long legs, and sarcastic comments to keep their eyes where he wants them, keep them entertained, keep them distracted. And there, in the shadows of their unblinking eyes, twisted scowls, and pouted lips, he hides.

She watches between refilling shot and fetching beers, is nearly caught up in the act herself—not an act exactly, it’s too easy for that, too natural, like it’s him after all the important bits have been whittled out—as he takes turns winning and losing hands of Texas hold ‘em. Never much, though, if she had to guess she’d say he was still around the amount he had started off with, working his way up for the big jackpot. He’s good, not taking naivety too far or coming across as experienced as he no doubt is, taunts just the right amount and eases the blow with a flirty grin when the situation is right. He’s good but she doesn’t think it’s his game. Maybe it’s the way his eyes drift over at the pool table every so often, not appraising the would-be competition, just lingering there for a few seconds before they flick away and dazzle some newcomer into folding too soon. It’s more fitting, she thinks and doesn’t understands why he’s bothering with cards when there’s more money in the table anyway.

When he leaves half an hour later, it’s with the biggest pot she’s ever seen won in a single game and a nod at her across the room. She spares him a smile, because she’s no better than anyone else here really and she can’t help but dance to his tune.

 

Two weeks later she sees him again, but it’s different this time. He’s as cocky and charismatic as ever, turning heads and pissing people off as easy as breathing, but his walk is less practiced ease and more genuine contentment, his smiles easier and lacking any motive. He doesn’t seat himself at the back table this time where a circle of faceless men have congregated. The stool at the far left of the counter is the only one free. He doesn’t seem to mind, just motions her over with a raised finger and a smile that’s full of silk and filthy promises, says ‘whatever you have on tap, sweetheart’ and makes himself comfortable. Looks get cast back at the pool table like last time, but they’re appraising now, calculating before he turns back to her and takes the beer graciously.

There are other patrons she should attend to, does occasionally when she can’t get away with ignoring them any longer without risking her tip. She’s not worried though, not really, because she has a sneaking suspicion that he’s a generous tipper—one looking for information at that. His hand is calloused and scarred which shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does, strong but gentle on hers when she accepts the offered handshake. I’m Dean, he says and she believes him because she’s more accurate than any polygraph test when it comes to picking out a lie. His—Dean’s—elbow presses against the black top as he slinks in with wide eyes and an easy smile and she lets him because she can’t think of a reason not to. Nothing out of the ordinary happening around here, she tells him, but then what really qualifies as out of the ordinary in a place like California? She’s right, he’s a big tipper, slips a fifty into her pocket with a wink and heads off to the pool table.

It’s later when the puppy-eyed, Goliath of a man that had come in twenty minutes earlier shoots her a fleeting glance that she begins to piece it together. Dean might be a professional, but this new guy is not. Their words say competition: spout halfhearted insults and digs at Goliath’s hair and Dean’s obvious over-compensating. Their body language tells a different story, the tall one lets his gaze linger too long when Dean isn’t looking—different than the other eyes that follow him around, like he’s committing something to memory, like he’s convincing himself that he’s really right there—stands too close sometimes in a way that seems too natural to not be from years of exposure to each other. Dean, for all his skill, doesn’t move away—doesn’t seem to even notice—or shoot a flirty smile like other’s with curious eyes had gotten.

She can see it now, the easiness in Dean’s movements, the distance he had kept from the pool table last time, the way Goliath acts like if he lets his eyes drift away from Dean for too long he’ll disappear. She was right before, as she finds that she often times is, pool is definitely more his game. It’s just meant to be played by two.


End file.
